


Shameless

by ideal_girl (trainwreckdress)



Series: The Albion Rooms [4]
Category: Real Person Fiction, The Libertines
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-02
Updated: 2004-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:42:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwreckdress/pseuds/ideal_girl





	Shameless

A careening whirlwind of sound and lights and booze and powder lands them two-by-two in one of the chairs skirting the bar, couches and tables overflowing with people and empty bottles.

"Knackered, yeah," Pete whispers against the crown of Carl's hair, lips pulling at stray strands as he slip-slides down, the leather of his jacket squeaking in protest against the leather of the chair.

Carl just grunts, pats himself down for his cigarettes, accepting a lighter from a passing girl. "Cheers, cheers," he says, pressing it back into her palm after his cigarette splutters to life, trying to ignore the hot dampness on his neck, Pete's mouth inches from his skin.

The girl gone and the club plunges into darkness once more (another fucking opener, at this rate they won't be home until fucking next Tuesday), and Carl tries to move, tries to angle his hips and place his legs in a way that wouldn't be entirely uncomfortable, shoulders stretching against the thin lining of his jacket and pulling over his chest. But Pete's all angles and dead weight and when Carl shifts, there's a heavy hand on his waist and Pete's voice in his ear and a threat in his head.

"Fucking move like that again and I can't be responsible." It's a bit of a growl, really, consonants softened with drink, vowels clipped with desperation.

"Wot?" Carl turns toward Pete, not thinking, just reacting, and the movement made the hand on his waist grows claws, grip at his skin, pressing between skin and leather with hot, sweaty palms. "Fucking control yourself, man."

"But I don't want to." From tough to petulant in ten seconds flat, eyes wide with something akin to innocent, but tainted with knowing. "You could make me stop."

"Could do, couldn't I?" Carl asks, face turning away as he pulls on his cigarette, smoke streaming from his mouth, curling in his fringe and disappearing toward the ceiling. "Should learn some boundaries, though, you, should learn how to act proper in front of the masses." Cigarette flicked away and his hand comes down, warm and heavy on Pete's thigh. "Can't even keep your tongue to yourself most nights."

"Och!" Fingernails grab at the flesh on Carl's side, pinch and twist. "Not like you complain about it," Pete continues, fingers moving downward, clearing the rise of belt and smooth elastic band of Carl's pants.

"Didn't want to hurt your feelings, yeah," Carl replies around a mouthful of beer, lifting his hips in a mock stretch, using his hand on Pete's thigh as leverage, the movement pushing Pete's hand further down, his belt loosening and falling open. The bottle, upturned and empty, finds its way to the floor, now-free hand scrabbling through his hair. "You gonna do something with that hand, or you just going to talk about it?"

"You fucking _bastard,_ " Pete pushes out through gritted teeth, his fingers reaching, and Carl feels the smirk drop right off his face. The guitars on stage squeal in time with his gasps of air, puffs of breath humid against Pete's lips. Lights flicker over the bar, painting stripes on the walls before dimming into a drum-fueled near-darkness. The club shrinks into shapes and shadows, the music taking center stage, most eyes on the oscillating performers, bobbing and dipping to the rhythm. Pete flicks out his tongue, a curl of pink in the smoky darkness, presses the tip against the bow of Carl's lips, breath fluttering. 

"Not a bastard," Carl mouths, punctuated by a sighing smile, a huff of sound as Pete's fingers clear fabric and twist and press against skin. "You're the fucking bastard with his hands down my pants."

"Could stop," Pete whisper-shouts, hand stilling for a quick second, spurred back to action by a stir of Carl's hips. "And you're the fucking bastard, as my belt's still done up and I'm sitting here with my fucking nuts up in my throat."

The music crashes to a halt, the club silent for just a moment before the crowd erupts into cheers and shouts. But the band's fairly crap, even though the tunes are good, the lead singer's just _awful,_ but they knew that already. Carl straightens up, head tilted to the side and eyes hooded and mouth full of mumbles that Pete knows by heart, could lip-read if he had to.

"Take care of that, now, shall we?" Carl says, and it's cacophony again, guitars and drums and a thudding bassline, pushing and pulling against each other, held snug by the chair, stuttering leather skipping across skin and Pete's making little _"oh oh oh"_ sounds, shoulders rising on the inhale, dropping down on the sounded syllable. 

Carl breathes, feels Pete vibrate and shiver through the artificial tingle in his gums, the lacquer on his teeth, the alcohol soaked into his tongue. It's hot, it's _fucking_ hot, and he's cramped, and one-handed, and there's _too many fucking people,_ but Pete's eyes are shut, lashes clumped together and lips redder than should be fucking possible, and there's a fucking crowd breaking off from the corner of the stage, fingers full of bills and _fuck_ they can't do this here, no matter what his dick wants, and it takes everything, all he has, all the gooseflesh and pumping blood to say, "Stop, we have to stop, fuck, Pete, come _with,_ damn it, fuck fuck _fuck!_ "

And there's spinning rooms and looming doors, and they're somehow backstage, a corridor lined with folded tables and chairs and heaps of wires. Pete pants, fingers twisting in Carl's sleeve and Carl twists right back, great finger-fulls of Pete's jacket, sweat slicking the dull black surface. The corridor bends, turns, dead-ends, and that's enough, enough for this, enough for _now_ , and Carl feels his teeth jitter when Pete pushes him up against the wall, so he pushes back and they're arm to arm, Carl having to fucking lean back, neck craned and heels up as Pete presses down on him. Lanky turns to hulking when Pete wants something, so Carl scraps his way out, gets Pete up against the wall instead, is fingers in Pete's hair, snagging and yanking until a stretch of throat is exposed that Carl can latch onto, make red blossoms of blood on the pale skin with his teeth.

"You've got to learn control, fucking control, Peter," he's spitting out between nips and sucks to Pete's neck. "Can't be doing that in front of everyone, can't be fucking doing that, people fucking talk, Peter, people fucking _talk._ "

"Don't care, don't care," is the response, high-pitched and breathy and Pete's hands are a tremor on Carl's back, up and under his jacket, now open and shifting, zippers clacking and catching.

Carl pushes, harder than he has to, enough to hear the satisfying thud of Pete's back on the wall. The _oomph!_ gets Pete pliant, hands to the side and palms open, head tilted back and mouth open, breath coming in gulping shudders.

"Know you don't, know that, fucking know that better than most, better than all, yeah, my Peter, think I don't know you love it, love the attention, fucking _shameless._ " A push-pull-tug and Pete's trousers are gaping, pants fingered aside and Carl's got his hands on him, cock and thatch of hair and damp skin, and he can't just fucking shut up, asking Pete "is this what you want, what you fucking want?", his whole body moving in time to the stuttering movements, Pete listing forward, Carl pushing back, groans and words and curses bitten and loosed. Pete's eyes creep open and there's a shared breath and then wetness on Carl's hands and bitten-back shouts in Pete's mouth, and Carl knows because he's tasting them, if only for a moment. Pete drops to his knees, ripping and tugging at Carl's denims and then it's warm, fucking _warm,_ and tight and fucking sloppy as hell, because it's not about finesse, not right now, never actually. It's not about grace, about fulfillment, and Carl knows that, knows it's about fucking _need,_ about scraping teeth and too-tight fists and pushing fingers, hot and burning and about fucking coming and needing and fucking falling to the ground when it's done, feeling used and empty and just waiting to be filled up again. Then, laughing into that red, red mouth, harrumphing when Pete says, "Knew you didn't want me to stop, fucking _bastard._ "


End file.
